One big, friendly *hello* to my new followers from the Labor Day weekend BBQ. If you don't see me on your side of the bloggerhood, just drop me a message. I probably couldn't find your link.
My *100 followers contest* ends this Friday. If you follow, and comment on the contest post, I'll enter your name in the draw.
Now on to Memoir Monday...
I didn't ask my dad to rent a pony for my party. Doesn't that sound unappreciative? I cannot picture a girl who wouldn't want a pony at her birthday, except me.
Shetland Ponies look like they've been plucked right out of a fairy tale, see...
I should have hopped on his back and ridden him to the land of snowflakes and hot cocoa. In my fictional life, I would have taken a gallop along the irrigation ditch, under the solid green leaves of our sycamore, to the sound of cheering party-goers. In my real life, I screwed up my forehead, and watched the other kids go first. Did I have to get on too? I did, and it was an awkward, uneventful moment where I couldn't get the beast to move. Tsk, tsk.
The rest of the party - delicious cake and ice cream, gifts, friendly faces, games - was overpowered by Mr. Lovely, chomping on weeds in the yet-to-be-landscaped half of the back yard.
In the end, my mom asked all the children to draw me a birthday picture. I don't remember if I invited plenty of classmates, so maybe my mom's friend's son was there to boost the numbers. No matter. In typical boy fashion, he drew me an elaborate, detailed picture of Mr. Lovely's poo. If I still had it, I would post it for you, but sadly, I burned it.
I'm just joking! Do I seem like that type? Oh heavens, I hope not. Are any of you afraid of adorable ponies?